


A Mother's Love

by VampireDuckie



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Drowning, F/M, Guns, Injury, Knives, Near Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireDuckie/pseuds/VampireDuckie
Summary: Mary Hatford was not ready to be a mother, but if she was anything, she was stubborn.
Relationships: Mary Hatford & Stuart Hatford, Mary Hatford/Nathan Wesninski, Neil Josten & Mary Hatford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	A Mother's Love

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, this is the first thing I'm posting here, just saying. Edited slightly because the tenses were everywhere and I'm made a few typos. All better now!
> 
> I wanted to do my take on Mary's evolution as a parent. (I've probably picked a lot of stuff up subconsciously, so if you recognise anything of this, let me know who to shout out!!) (Also any triggers/warnings I might have missed)

Mary Hatford hates her son.

It's not personal, not really. Just that, as soon as he looks out at the world for the first time, a swaddled new born, and blinks up at her with the Butcher's eyes, she wants to smother him.

Her pride and stubbornness had gotten her this far, but she isn't ready for a fucking kid. She's nineteen for fuck's sake! She doesn't even like Nathan that much - their marriage had mostly been about mutual attraction and flipping her father the middle finger.

The worst day of her life so far had been when the pregnancy test came back positive. Stunned, she hadn't reacted quickly enough to block Nathan from seeing, and he'd been so excited, she'd mostly been swept up in it.

What else could she do? Mary Hatford doesn't get scared, and meets every challenge head on. She's a fighter - not a goddamn mother.

She's pretty sure she's supposed to feel more than irritation and disgust towards the mewling thing in her arms, but she is so tired, and it is so loud. Nathan swoops in, scooping the baby up and smiling.

There's no affection in his eyes either, as they meet an identical pair, only pride and greed. With Lola leaning against the door, smirking, Mary decides not to comment.

She left the pair with the baby and went to lie down.

+++

Five days. Five days straight, and the thing had yet to shut up. Nothing would keep it from crying and Mary is sick of it. Yet again, she considers just smothering it.

Three cups of coffee and two outfit changes later, she storms out of the house, the fight with Nathan ringing in her ears. It's his stupid heir, his stupid idea to keep it - and he'd known from the minute they met she was never one for affection. What the actual fuck does he want her to do?

When she slips back in hours later, the house is blessedly silent. Nathan just grunts and pulls her closer under the covers.

Years go by without baby Nathaniel so much as sniffling.

Mary doesn't ask. She's more relieved than concerned.

+++

Okay, Mary isn't great with kids, but- as she points out to Nathan- maybe he should be able to handle the soft plastic spoon before Lola's knives.

Nathan scoffs. Perhaps something in her is broken; she's more annoyed and offended than actually worried. There's blood on her blouse.

Nathaniel had squirmed, trembling as she swiped the blood away from the cuts all over his tiny, pudgy fingers. Seeing those too familiar eyes filled with so much emotion was eerie, and he kept cringing away from the antiseptic wipe.

Without thinking, her hand had slapped his little apple blossom cheek, and it swelled up red immediately. The boy froze, and held perfectly still as she finished applying bandages.

Mary wasn't entirely comfortable with the way relief outweighed guilt.

He hadn't long learned to walk and talk, but the child lisped out a quiet "thank you" and slipped to the floor, disappearing through the door in a flash.

The cook had bustled in then, some washed out cow built like a shithouse, and glowered at Mary in disgust. Mary Hatford was not to be disrespected, especially not in her own home, not by her own employee.

"Get this cleaned up," she ordered imperiously, looking pointedly down her nose, "It can be your responsibility now, so get that look off your face or so help me, we'll have your replacement here in time to make lunch."

Mary stalked from the room, leaving the mess of discarded packaging and bloody wipes and tissues as promised.

That night, she looks at all the scars on her husband's large, calloused hands. They're small, and faint, but there. She wonders if her son's hands will look the same one day. She thinks of how they looked today - chubby, knuckles nothing more than dimples, sliced up palms and fingers.

She leaves the bandaging to the cook from then on.

+++

The door slams and Mary stomps in, hiding her surprise at the cook's distraught, tear stained face. "What? Why the fuck were you blowing my phone up?"

The texts and calls had been ignored until they were too annoying. Mary hadn't even glanced at them, just went home to fire the nosy busybody.

She doesn't even seem to notice her total loss of job security. "Please, miss! He's going to kill the boy, he's killing him! Please! The door's locked, but-"

Mary shoves past- she can hear it now- Nathan shouting, Lola laughing, and running water.

She's kicked in too many doors for the feeble bathroom latch to bother her, and Lola's head is tipped back with her cackling - all too easy to sock her in the throat. Nathan is shouting something about respect and-

Nathaniel is-

Her baby is- he's not moving. Nathan has him pinned under the water in the overflowing tub, and Nathaniel isn't moving. There are no air bubbles.

Next thing Mary knows, she's kneeling over his tiny five year old body, feeling his ribs creak under her palms, and she's snarling at him to fucking breathe-

After too long, far too long, the boy starts coughing and choking, so she rolls him onto his side to throw up.

He's shaking and hyperventilating and his lips are blue, and Mary pulls him onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him.

She rocks him, running her fingers through sodden curls, ignoring the fact that they're both shivering and alone in the suddenly silent room.

Nathaniel hiccups into her shoulder, and Mary shushes him, rubbing up and down the spiky knobs of his spine.

They stay there until both Mary's son and legs are asleep.

+++

Mary Wesninski loves her son.

But quietly.

She takes him to play Exy under his middle name - a family name she'd thrown onto his birth certificate more out of pride than actual meaning. He loves it - after the disaster of kindergarten, he's tutored at home and doesn't see many people his own age.

Nathan thinks his son is weak and cowardly, but Mary has dozens of phone calls from furious parents that say otherwise. And what could she say? 'Sorry my son was rough, but not really, yours is just soft'? Nathaniel is a timid thing in the house - a ghost of a seven year old, and how does she explain that the rules are different outside?

She loves her son and doesn't want to see him hurt. But Exy is a full contact sport and he's so small for his age; it's a matter of not if but when he gets sent flying. It was a blatant, malicious foul, and she's on her feet for several reasons. Mary loves her son - but she hasn't stopped hating him either.

Hating seeing Nathan in the child's face - even through the helmet's visor, Mary can see the chilling smile that's closer to a snarl, as Nathan's temper tears through the boy.

Butcher's son, indeed.

Barely three hours, there are five of them in the sitting room. Two police officers, Mary, Nathan, and their squirming son.

"I'm afraid Mrs Dunn is insisting on legal action, so we really have no choice but to take Nathaniel's statement; we can do that here or down at the station," one of the pigs apologises, hands clenched around a hat.

The other sits back in the armchair, stone faced.

"He's seven," Nathan says slowly, grip tightening on the boy's shoulder. He stops wriggling. "This is ridiculous."

"He also sent a ten year old to hospital with a dislocated and broken arm, fractured wrist, and three cracked ribs, Mr Wesninski. Without his Exy gear, young Thomas could very well have died."

Neither of the officers will see it, but Mary recognises the twitch of Nathan's lip, the gleam in his eye. He's pleased. His son assaulted and almost killed a child, and he's practically puffing up his chest.

"Well, Nathaniel," Mary interjects, "Go on, then. Tell them what happened."

The boy dutifully - and enthusiastically- recounts how his team had been winning, and the bigger player's increasingly mean and rude comments, tripping Nathaniel and hitting him with the Exy racquet. He stresses that Exy is a full contact sport, and Nathaniel didn't mind too much because his team was winning. 

"And his check was illegal! The referee was his big brother, so he pretended not to see, and look- I scraped my leg and everything and we didn't even get a penalty when he should have been given a red card! And when I was getting up, he pushed me, so I pushed back - not even all that hard, because my leg was sore and the ball was about to go into play. But he tried to hit me, so-" he shrugged his narrow shoulders, ducking his head bashfully, "I just reacted."

The police ask a few more questions, including what kind of things the boy had been saying, and Nathaniel glanced between his parents warily. "Adult words I'm not allowed to say."

Its seems an eternity later that they leave, promising to try and talk Mrs Dunn down. They'd write it down as self defence, but promised they'd crack down hard on Nathaniel if he ever hurt anyone again.

Tensing, the child nods stiffly. Mary's sure his thoughts mirror her own - Lola is downstairs readying another lesson, and without the soundproofing, the entire neighbourhood would be hearing said lesson screaming.

Nathan's smile flickers plastic for a second as the pigs digest that reaction. Mary resists the urge to tense up herself. Stupid, stupid boy.

It's something he ought to learn, though. Mary escorts the unwanted visitors out, all polite and profuse thanks. Locks the door. Turns to watch with a grim face.

Nathan yanks his son though the kitchen to the utility room, where the cook's replacement is ironing. Without hesitating, he grabs the iron and swings it.

For the first time in seven years, Mary hears her son scream.

+++

Esme hates her son. She watches the sleeping ten year old and considers smothering him. It's definitely a more long term solution than the one she's fumbling through now. She gives herself another moment to make sure of her decision before shaking him awake.

His eyes are wide and preternaturally bright in the dark. She shivers, but forces herself to lean in and breathe, lower than a whisper, "Not a sound. Put on your shoes and coat. Then follow me."

She can't be sure whether to be proud or guilty that there's hardly a rustle as he obeys. So she distracts herself staying vigilant as she leads him downstairs, down more stairs to the basement, then through and into the underground garage.

It would be easier and faster to take a car, but they've all got GPS, and at this hour, would send an alert to Nathan's phone as soon as she turned the ignition. So she pulls her son - Jake, their papers say, past the neat rows of meticulously cared for shiny vehicles.

Thirty exhausting minutes later, she's pushing Jake ahead of her onto the night bus, and paying the dull eyed driver. He fidgets with his hood, but even in the dark she's insistent that his distinctive, bright hair stays covered.

Esme hates her son, but it's love that wraps her arms around him and pulls him close as she starts whispering.

+++

It's been a while since Katherine thought about how much she loves her son. But it's the only coherent thought she has as she brings the car skidding down a narrow alley far too fast.

She's got her own slashes all over her arms and nicking her sides, but she focuses on the twelve year old slumped in the passenger seat. "Alex, eyes open!"

"They're open," he replies faintly, clutching his abdomen tight with both hands. "How much further?"

Katherine eyes the looming buildings, the flickering streetlights, the blood all over her son's hands and arms and lap. His oozing jacket has been zipped back up, and they're both dreading having to take it off again.

She yanks the car into a hairpin turn and screeches into a stop in a gravel courtyard. "We're here."

There's no time for his fumbling and stumbling, as she marches him into the dark veterinary clinic, and her contact has to lift him onto the table, under the only light in the whole building switched on.

She scans what has already been set out and fishes through every cupboard she can find for the rest of what is needed.

Alex is chalky, eyes rolling, refusing to release him arms. Katherine smacks him back into consciousness.

At the contact's nod, Katherine unzips the coat, brisk and efficient.

For the second time in an hour, her son's entrails spill over his lap.

Katherine loves her son, but she hates this blind panic. She can only clench his small, bony hand in her own and pray.

+++

Anna hates her son.

"What did I tell you?" She hisses in guttural German, glancing around warily.

Stefan stares back mulishly, one eye red and already swelling. He keeps his mouth shut for once. Though that might be because of the lipstick on his teeth she'd already scolded him for.

She'd known she should have kept a closer eye on him, but he was fourteen for God's sake. He'd followed rules as a child. His teenage rebellion would get them both killed, and she made sure to tell him as much.

He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut and pulls her behind a dumpster just as shouting and gunfire erupt. Well, at least he's good for something other than compromising them and getting in the way.

He knows how to return fire too, and does so almost before she can. There's too many of them, and the pair's Glocks can't compare to the firepower they're carrying. Damn Nathan and his pride and his fucking Moriyama connections.

"We're leaving! Now!" she barks, pushing Stefan into a retreat. There's a crescendo of gunfire as they run, but they duck around a corner and-

He's gone. Stefan has just vanished and Anna is cursing violently when she hears a clatter and looks up.

He's scrambling over gabling, ducking and dodging and tripping around an assassin's knife- gun long gone. He's managing to hold his own with that puny switchblade, for which Anna can only grudgingly thank Lola.

They're fighting too close for Anna to try and cover him, and the seconds last hours until her boy slides the knife into a jugular, smoothly and well-practised. The relief lasts half a heartbeat before both bodies - one so much smaller, are rolling down the steep roof.

Stefan catches himself on the guttering, already swinging for the narrow balcony, when there's another burst of gunfire.

He drops like a stone.

Cursing, Anna checks her magazine, hoping for more bullets to magically appear. Oh, how she hates her son.

+++

Melissa loves her son. Not as much as she should, but more than she could.

She knows he loves her more than he should. Well, she knows that now. He's rambling, knuckles white on the steering wheel, trying desperately to persuade her to talk.

He's been driving for hours now, hasn't slept in at least forty more. It's not safe for him to be behind the wheel, but it's not safe- never safe - for him to stop.

She has to make sure he knows this. It's the only way she has left to show her love.

They'd argued in Montreal. He wanted answers. She wanted him safe. The answers were dangerous, too dangerous. He knew what he needed to know, and he needed to trust her. They'd argued about coming back to America, about Canada being far too close to Nathan.

About how she'd caught him kissing a girl - again.

Then they'd found her contact dead and scrambled. She'd been foolish enough to think Seattle was far enough away to call on another contact to arrange more papers, more identities, more time hiding.

They were exhausted from the frantic fleeing, and neither paying enough attention. They got their ID's. And walked out to their deaths.

Chris won't die, not here. He's looking worse for wear, battered and bruised, covered in small cuts, hair matted to his head on one side with blood, but his eyes are clear.

Melissa, on the other hand, knows her luck has finally run out. That pipe had damn near skewered her, and she's morbidly fascinated with her abdomen under her hand - bloating, aching, stiffening. Bleeding, internally. Not to discount the external bleeding, of course.

Before Chris could see, she'd pulled the throwing knife out of her shoulder, and tossed it.

It's poetic, she thinks. The wounds that had nearly killed her son were killing her.

He's a strong boy, though. Stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He always has been. He's finally taller than her, which Melissa struggles to accept. Not that it's much of an achievement; she's only a measly 5'2'', and he's already sixteen.

It's his voice breaking that gets to her. Loathe as she is to admit it, she hopes that she makes it to dawn. Not long now. But she'd rather see the start of day than look at the face she loves and hates.

The eyes she'd given life to, and that had taken life from her.

But her strong little boy, who has only cried once since he was a baby, sobs, "Mom!" and her heart cracks with his voice.

Melissa forces herself to look at him, really look. And she loves him. She loves him and she can't hate him.

She'd always thought he looked just like his father, had spat it at him often enough, but right now? He doesn't look like a Wesninski. He's all Hatford.

The wrenching in her chest, she'll blame on dying, but her eyes can only see Stuart, as he was when she left him.

Her baby brother had been picked on a lot, for being so short and wiry, with the narrow face and delicate features that set out a Hatford. He was always told that he looked girly, or like a fox.

Chris had been a girl once. He'd complained the whole time that the wig was itchy. But she'd pretended not to notice the adorable twirls he'd do in his dresses when he thought she wasn't looking.

Her son is more of a fox, though, Melissa decides. He has to be. Sly, cunning, a predator despite being prey. Scruffy too. She almost smiles as the dawn lights his hair a ridiculous shade of orange.

He chokes out her rules again and again, and she settles to watch her last sunrise.

"Abram," Mary Hatford whispers, and she means I love you.

Then, without fanfare, she's dead.


End file.
